


Rapture

by drawlight



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Good Omens Fusion, Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Apocalypse, Castiel/Dean Winchester UST, Demon Dean Winchester, Drabble, M/M, The Rapture (Christianity)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2020-01-01 02:45:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18327095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drawlight/pseuds/drawlight
Summary: It is the eve of the Apocalypse. Castiel and Dean, representatives of Heaven and Hell respectively, consider the very real problem that they rather like things the way that they are.





	Rapture

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PallasPerilous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PallasPerilous/gifts).



> Written for the tumblr AU challenge. I was given the words _bookstore_ and _apocalypse_ , so naturally Good Omens appeared.

 

“What do you think?”

“About what?”

“This whole _rapture_ business, Cas, the end of the motherfuckin’ world,” Dean pauses, the dust of the bookshelves on his dark flannel. “I really thought there’d be more flaming swords and hellhounds, you know?” A shrug, roll across the shoulders. Castiel doesn’t look. He is _very good_ at not looking. Instead, he continues to sort the pile through his hands. Mass markets and trades, old hardcovers of Danielle Steel and Dan Brown. He puts the little stickers on their backs, over their ISBNs, their barcodes. (He is a terrible bookseller. The stories he is partial to, classic fictions and old histories, never make it to the shelves in the front room.) “Really ruins the whole point of this being a demon business. Thought there’d be more perks. I mean, we get better company, sure. Not sure I could handle Boethius cornering me again.”

Castiel stifles a laugh. He shouldn’t like the demon. Dean had crawled out of Hell, up to the surface, around the same time that Castiel had landed on a mountain and looked about at all of Creation and thought _this is beautiful, perfection, wonder._ Castiel and his weak spot for stories, for fallibility. They have stayed on earth, through all the millennia, watching empires rise and ships sink. Humans and their fumbling toward the sky, toward the dark. Knowing that danger might lurk in shadows and still, still, still daring to light their little fires, to press on, show the light into the corner.

He has a lot of thoughts about corners and shadows. It’s not a place angels tend to go, no. Castiel is made of divine light and love, packed into a vessel of smooth skin, parchment skin. Gunpowder plot hair. Eyes like sodalite. Dean might be compelled to report to Hell, sure, might have his task list of Devious Things. (Dean is particularly proud of the American insurance system and expense reporting.) Still, the very nature of Hell is to question. It was founded on questions, on rebellion. Dean is closer to humanity, his rebellion is into light. Castiel watches him watching the angels, wondering about mixtures and suspensions, about dissolution. Living at extremes, Castiel thinks, is no real way to be. No one thrives on a margin.

“So what do you propose, Dean?” Castiel and his questions (they in Heaven have always said he has too many questions, his mouth is too full).

“The way I see it, buddy,” Dean says, moving forward. His eyes bright, pupils wide and dark. Castiel has always liked their blackness, like the dark of the universe beyond the profanity of light, the interruption of stars. Dark is the natural state. Dean and the dark. “Is that this whole thing has to get off to the races with the boy.”

“The antichrist.”

“That name is _terrible_ marketing. Couldn’t they give him something cooler? The End-Bringer, World-Smasher, fuckin’ _Sword of Damocles_? Man, everyone’s gotta come play some 80s games. Get a few fuckin’ ideas. God, even He-Man has a better name.”

“Dean.”

“Okay, so the thing is, he’s human, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, he’s gotta make a choice. They don’t come pre-programmed.”

“Are you seriously suggesting _interfering_ with the Plan?”

“Look, Cas,” Dean moves a bit closer, crowding Castiel up among his own books. Against Ballard, against Isherwood. Emily Dickinson and her pearls. “The best part about humans is that they have a lot of choices in them.” His face close to Cas, sharing breath. Castiel’s vessel flaring at proximity. A demon in his pocket, nose to nose, telling him stories about rebellion, about interruption, about the end of the world. A hand reaching out to his arm, that curl on the lip of the other man. Castiel thinks of the story of time, the history of genetics, all forming up to this vessel, this perfect vessel, that Dean inhabits. It suits him.

“Dean,” he breathes. (You must be careful what you say around demons.)

“Just sayin’, you should think about _choices_.”

  
  
  



End file.
